Blunt Trauma

She was lying motionless when he arrived. He’d heard the commotion from his desk where he’d only just begun going over the homework assignments gathered in from his fourth years at the end of the day. He’d fought to get through the swell of children gathered round the torpid, motionless body, each of them vying for a look at the unconscious girl – each of them with an unsettling yet palpable enthusiasm.

‘You there, Mathieson! What happened here?’ he said to a rotund boy of around fifteen with red, curly hair and a worn-out school blazer which, along with his shirt, rode up his back, exposing blotchy patches of psoriatic skin.

‘Dunno, sir. Ah never seen nuffin.’ the boy answered, his casual glance to his friends and their accompanying sniggers, suggesting otherwise.

David Jarvie, the overworked and undervalued science teacher, gently turned the girl over to face him, sweeping her fuliginous hair away from her eyes. He recognised her from the previous year when he’d been asked to take registration for the year’s influx of first years. Her name though, escaped him.

Threads of blood clotted hair streaked her cheek, its residue disparate against her pale, white skin like a web of capillary shadows imprinted on flesh as he tried to make her more comfortable. Balling his sweater up, he placed it under her head, forming a makeshift pillow.

‘What happened here? Does anyone know her name?’ he said, turning to the children surrounding them.

‘Her name’s Claire Latuso, sir. She’s in ma class.’ a voice came from amongst the rabble, though he couldn’t tell who had spoken.

‘Claire, can you hear me? You’re alright. It’s Mr. Jarvie. You’ve had an accident but you’re going to be alright, okay?’

‘JUST WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS GOING ON HERE? HAVEN’T YOU ALL GOT HOMES TO GO TO? THE BELL RANG FIVE MINUTES AGO!’ Dr. Warren said, his vocal projection skittling young bodies from his path as he approached, ‘Mr. Jarvie, what’s going on here?’ he repeated.

‘I’m not sure, Dr. Warren. Claire Latuso here appears to have had an accident of some kind but I’ve yet to ascertain what exactly happened.’

The children had dispersed in all directions, Dr. Warren’s arrival being the catalyst, leaving the two men alone with the child, who began to regain consciousness, opening her eyes slightly.

‘Help me get her up, Andrew. She needs medical attention.’ David Jarvie said to his more senior colleague, tentatively lifting her to her feet.

 

*

 

She was pleased to see the calm, still water of the canal, dappled as it was, with the glimmer of the warm June sun. Contrasting starkly with the mounds of shattered concrete and serpentine, rusted iron rods that bound them together, it calmed her mind. Helped her forget. She scrambled her way back down – back down from her elevated position atop the rubble, all that remained from the long-since razed foundry that stood there many years before.

Drawing air sharply through her teeth, she grimaced, slipping through the fence as she’d done many times before, her bruised ribs still tender.

It took her longer to get to school coming this way, she’d been late often. She didn’t care though. It was better this way. At least she could feed the ducks that swam in the canal. It was her favourite place, the canal. The only place engendering the solace she rarely had at home, much less, school.

That’s why it was better, she thought. To come this way. Through the waste ground and along the canal. That way she could all but ensure she wouldn’t see them – wouldn’t see her.

Opening her schoolbag, she took out the sandwiches she’d made before setting off for school. She had to make them herself, her mum having already left at half past five to go to work. She cleaned the offices of some businesses in an industrial estate in Port Dundas in the north of the city. Her dad left not long after to go to his work at the bus depot where he worked as a mechanic. She and her brother made their own arrangements for getting to school. She didn’t much like Alan, her brother. He seemed to go out of his way to cause trouble for her. He made her feel worthless, like she didn’t matter. She sometimes wondered if she did.

The largest of the ducks came gliding purposefully towards her, sensing the scattered crumbs of bread that were to come. Sergeant Bilko, she’d named him, after a character in an old television programme her dad liked to watch. Presently, joined by the rest of his platoon, he, and they, began greedily gobbling the pieces of bread, smothered with margarine and strawberry jam,  that floated on the algae mottled surface of the water where she’d dropped them.

‘Aye, hen. Yer a good wee soul awright. They ducks ur well looked efter, eh?’ an old man walking his dog said. She recognised him from other mornings when she’d been there, feeding the ducks, delaying her onward journey to school, ‘Christ, hen. Whit’s happened tae yer face at aw?’ he added, and she put her hand up to her eye. It was less swollen than the night before, though still painful to the touch.

‘It’s nuffin. It wis just. . .’ she considered for a moment what to say, ‘it’s nuffin.’

‘Nothin, eh? Well, if ye don’t mind me sayin, it disnae look like nothin. Whit did yer mammy say when ye went hame like that?

‘She disnae care. She just gied me intae trouble fur fightin. Ah wisnae fightin though. It wisnae ma fault.’ she said, turning away from him and breaking the last of the jam piece she’d taken from her bag into bits, throwing the crumbs to the water.

‘Well, that’s a shame. Whit aboot yer daddy?’ The dog, a shaggy haired Border Terrier came over to her, sniffing around her feet. She hunkered down, patting its head and whispered something to it, the dog licking her face in response.

‘Ah need tae go, ah’m late fur school.’ she said, standing up suddenly before running back to the fence where she’d squeezed through to the canal path before.

‘Where ur ye gaun? The school’s that waiy.’ the old man shouted after her.

‘Ah just need tae get somethin afore ah go. Ah nearly furgoat.’ she replied, quietly, the sharp jolt of pain from her contused sternum gripping her voice like a clamp as she pulled herself back through the gap in the fence.

 

*

 

When she summoned the courage to open her eyes they were gone. She lay for a while looking at the aeroplane high above her, its vapour trail bubbling out to its rear as it advanced slowly across the sky. It would soon be gone though, deliquescent through the lens of her tears.

She wondered why? Why her? What had she done to her – to any of them?

Picking up the books and jotters that lay scattered around her on the grass and retrieving her schoolbag from the thick brush of brambles where it hung, she began to walk home.

 

Softly, she opened the door, stepping over the threshold into the relative gloom of the lobby. Hanging her schoolbag on one of the pegs fixed to the interior wall, she clicked the door shut again.

‘Where’ve you been?’ a voice came from over her shoulder, it was her brother, Alan, holding his football, his nostrils encrusted with grimy mucus, as they invariably were.

‘Ah just goat held up comin back fae school —’

‘Whit’s the matter wae yer face?’ he said, straining his eyes and stepping towards the light switch.

‘Naw don’t. It’s just —’

‘You’ve been fightin again. Ma maw’s gonnae kill you. Ah’m tellin.’

‘Naw, Alan —’

‘MUM! ANGELA’S BEEN FIGHTIN AGAIN! SHE’S GOAT A BLACK EYE!’ he screamed before barging by her, tearing open the front door. It slammed shut, leaving her wincing in pain, cradling her ribs.

‘Whit’s this aboot fightin, eh? Ah don’t know – me an yer faither oot workin every bloody ooir God sends,’ her mother said, stamping down the stairs, ‘ANGELA! Whit’s happened? Let me huv a look at ye!’

‘It wisnae ma fault, mum. Honest.’ she said, looking into her eyes. Her mother looked back at her, clasping her chin in her cold hand, inspecting her face. She drew her gaze to the grass stains on her shirt and her dirty, scuffed shoes.

‘Bloody fightin, is it? Black eyes? How many times huv you tae be telt, eh? Look at the bloody state ay ye. Yer a lassie fur God’s sake! Ye’ve nae business oot there fightin like a boay. Like a bloody wee hairy!’

‘But mum —’

‘But mum, nothin! It’s no the first time, is it? Get tae yer room right now an just you wait till yer faither gets in, dae ye hear me?’

 

She was awoken by the sound of raised voices, muffled, and dampened by the house’s old walls. Her father’s voice booming. Baritone and forceful. Her mother’s screeching wails silenced by the gavel-like slam of fist on the kitchen table, his dinner plate crashing to the floor. She knew as much as he would have just come home from the pub — where he went most nights after his shift — looking for his dinner before he went to bed, ready to do it all over again the next day, as he must. It was because of her they were fighting, she knew it. It was all her fault, coming home like she had, upsetting her mother.

She crept to the bedroom door, the twilight of the summer evening from the open-draped window melting into encroaching darkness. Opening it ajar, the sound of his footsteps creaking up the stairs met her ears, along with her mother’s sobbing from the kitchen. She slipped back into bed, under the duvet, closing her eyes.

Lying still, despite the click of the light switch and her father’s mass making its impression on the mattress felt as he sat down next to her on the bed, she felt the roughness of his touch as he looked at her face under the light. The smell of ingrained grease and oil, combined with the synthetic, citrusy odour of the industrial cleaner he applied to his hands at the end of each working day filled the breath she took. Still, she kept up the charade of sleep.

‘Angela, wake up, pet. Who did this tae ye?’

Opening her eyes, she looked at her father, his face sullen and morose, ‘Ah’m sorry dad, ah didnae mean tae —’

‘Don’t you be sorry, pet. You’ve nothin tae apologise fur.’

‘But ma mum —’

‘Never mind yer mum. Ye know she’s. . . goat her issues. The day’s just wan ay her bad days, that’s aw. How did this happen? Who did this tae ye?’

‘Some lassies at school. The same wans fae the last time. Ah telt them tae leave me alane but they widnae stoap it. Pushin me an kickin me in the back, then ah fell oer an they aw ganged up, kickin an punchin. . .’

She started to cry and her father held her for a moment, the smell of beer and tobacco smoke pronounced on his breath, ‘It wisnae ma fault, dad.’

‘Ah know, pet. Ah know,’ he said, tremulously, before clearing his throat, ‘These lassies that did this, who’s the ringleader? Who wis the wan shootin their mooth aff, gettin the rest ay them tae join in? There’s ayewaiys wan.’

‘A big lassie called Claire Latuso.’

‘Claire Latuso, eh? Ah’ll tell ye whit yer gonnae dae, right? Ye listenin?’ she nodded her head, sitting up intently, ‘The morra oan yer waiy tae school, ye keep yer eyes peeled fur a brick, right? An when ye see wan, ye put it in yer schoolbag an ye go tae school. Then, when that bell rings at four o’cloack, ye find this Claire Latuso, right? Ye find her, then ye walk up tae her, put yer haun intae yer bag, get the brick an ye fuckin skelp her wae it, dae ye hear me?’ he pounded his fist into his open palm.

Angela looked at him in horror, ‘But dad, ah cannae. . . s-she’s bigger than me, a-a-ah’ll get in trouble.’

‘Ye’ll dae it awright, an ah’ll tell ye another thing, see that lassie? See that Claire Latuso? She’ll never so much as look at ye again, her, or the other wans.’ her father said, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. He stood up and left the room, clicking the light off as he went, ‘Mind whit ah sais noo.’ she heard him say over the creaks from the stairs again in his descent.